so they are! Do you know, Baxter, I really believe I must be growing absent-minded." He hauled in the slack, secured the pince-nez, adjusted them beamingly. His irritability had vanished like the dew off one of his roses. " Thank you, Baxter, thank you. You are invaluable."
And with a radiant smile Lord Emsworth made buoyantly for the door, en route for God's air and the society of McAllister. The movement drew from Baxter another cough—a sharp, peremptory cough this time; and his lordship paused, reluctantly, like a dog whistled back from the chase. A cloud fell over the sunniness of his mood. Admirable as Baxter was in so many respects, he had a tendency to worry him at times; and something told Lord Emsworth that he was going to worry him now.
"The car will be at the door," said Baxter with quiet firmness, "at two sharp."
"Car? What car?"
"The car to take you to the station."
"Station? What station?"
Rupert Baxter preserved his calm. There were times when he found his employer a little trying, but he never showed it.
"You have perhaps forgotten, Lord Emsworth, that you arranged with Lady Constance to go to London this afternoon."
"Go to London!" gasped Lord Emsworth, appalled.
"In weather like this? With a thousand things to attend to in the garden? What a perfectly preposterous notion! Why should I go to London? I hate London."
"You arranged with Lady Constance that you would give Mr. McTodd lunch to-morrow at your club."
"Who the devil is Mr. McTodd?"
"The well-known Canadian poet."
